


in six words or less

by krystallisert



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Miscarriage, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Smut-ish, friends to strangers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-08-28 06:07:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8434582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krystallisert/pseuds/krystallisert
Summary: watch me misuse punctuation and the english language. (or; stories and drabbles based on six word poetry.)





	1. his hands are always so warm (Ushijima Wakatoshi)

**Author's Note:**

> I really like six word poetry/stories, okay. Initially I figured I'd make drabbles, but, uh, that didn't work out at all, huh? Better luck next time. This is really self indulgent on my part, so characters could feel OOC, I guess? Feel free to hit me up if there's someone you'd like to see something written about if you're into that kind of thing.

His hands are always so warm. It's a nice change from the cold, unemphatic glint in his eyes.  
  
It was surprisingly easy, convincing the volleyball star into some kind of friends with benefits arrangement – but then, you suppose even the great Ushiwaka succumbs to carnal desire from time to time. You never ask why, better to leave things unsaid than to confirm your fears: that you're a convenience.  
  
(He strikes you as the kind of man not to be interested in distractions like love and relationships; volleyball is the priority, after all. In all the years you've known the athlete, he's never had a girlfriend, and by the clumsy, uncertain movements and gestures that was your first time together, you assume he's not got much experience in the sexual department either. The thought makes you giddy in a way that's not good, not healthy for the kind of arrangement you have.)  
  
So you keep your mouth shut when he arrives at your door – he's not much for words, and there's a lot better uses for that sharp mouth of his anyways. Like this; biting down, _hard_ , on your shoulder, hands already trailing down, _down, down_. Sucking on your skin until it's bruised and throbbing, licking and nipping in a way that could – in any other circumstance – be described as possessive. You'll think, belatedly – in the comfort of your bedroom, with only cool air as company – to scold him for leaving marks in hard-to-hide places. In your mind, you know you should tell him to stop, because nothing good would come of anyone seeing them.  
  
(In front of the mirror, you stare at the speckle of purple and bright red marring your skin, trace them with a careful finger, and you assure yourself that next time, you'll tell him to stop; knowing full and well that you won't.)  
  
You don't speak up when you pushes you against the wall, even though a picture of your family goes down in the process and shatters at his feet. His shoes are still on, he doesn't care. You don't protest – _oh god, you couldn't even if you'd wanted to_ – when he presses into you, both still mostly clothed and not even a 'hello' exchanged between the two of you.  
  
(The lack of skin against skin makes the encounter feel dispassionate, impersonal, but it's better that way. The uncomfortable chafing of his jeans against your thighs keeps you in check; helps you refrain from saying something stupid – something you don't mean (or worse; something you _do_ mean). You ache to touch, to feel, so you do the next best thing and pulls on the front of his shirt, urging him forward.)  
  
You never kiss, that's a boundary _you_ put in place. It feels stupid, on days like this, to deny yourself that; that one thing you want so, so bad. You picture yourself biting down on the plump flesh of his lower lip, to feel the taste of his tongue in your mouth. You wonder what kind of kisser he is, if his lips would feel as soft and addictive on your own as they do on the rest of your skin. Lost in thought, you move, eyes on the grim lines of his mouth, and you barely manage to catch yourself in time.  
  
(If he notices your almost-slip up, he doesn't point it out, and chooses instead to latch onto your neck, teeth aggressive and pace quickening. You stifle a moan, biting down on your own lip and leaning helplessly against the wall.)  
  
He is rough and unforgiving during sex, in a way that seems uncharacteristic for a man who prefers to keep his cards close to his chest. It feels like you're sharing a secret – you're the only one who knows what his flushed face looks like, how wild his eyes are when he's about to come.  
  
His hands – large and calloused, almost demanding in the way they press you closer, deeper, harder – are always warm and inviting. They contradict the concentrated frown on his face, makes you forget that once you're finished, he'll exchange empty pleasantries and polite apologies for the broken picture frame at his feet. It's easy to pretend, when his touch feels like a caress, that he wouldn't probably recoil if you ever told him how you feel.  
  
~  
  
It all goes to shit on an especially cold night in November. He's on edge, just days away from an important match that makes him unusually nervous and closed up, and you're tired; days of overtime at work and your best friend's pregnancy announcement – followed by the inevitable _'when are_ you _getting hitched'_ conversations that always seem to be targeted at you these days – making you frail and itching for comfort.  
  
The Ushijima you knew in college would've taken your 'I'm okay' at face value and let be with that, but the man has grown up in more than the physical sense, and the furrow of his brows – a look of contemplation and confusion – could easily be mistaken for worry. When he walks right past you and makes himself comfortable on your couch, you're at a loss for words, and when he grabs the remote, turns on the television and starts surfing the channels, you can't do anything but stare. It's such a domestic sight, one you haven't witnessed since the two of you became _fuckfriends_ , and you're not quite sure how you're supposed to react. You end up standing in the hallway until he turns around to look at you (his mouth says nothing, but his eyes leave little up for discussion) and you move awkwardly to sit on the couch with him.  
  
(You take care not to sit too close; just out of reach, as if scared to invade his personal space. He makes you feel like a teenager – all hormones and anticipation and the electrifying feeling in the space between you on the couch. You will yourself not to stare at his unguarded expression as he puts the remote down with a murmured 'I like this show'. To the untrained eye, he probably looks as expressionless and apathetic as always, but you're somewhat of a scholar in the art of reading Ushijima's face, you know what he looks like when he's relaxed.  
  
He catches you staring, and you tell yourself to look away. It's impossible to tell what he's thinking, but you're sure he can read your eyes like an open book, and you have to look away. You're vaguely aware of a hand on your cheek and your name whispered in a low voice, and then, and then – )  
  
It takes a second to realize that this new sensation is his lips on yours, a barely there peck seemingly to gauge your reaction. In your mind, you know the smart thing to do is to get up and tell him to leave. That he's broken the agreement and crossed a line and that you're not okay with it. But you've been waiting, wanting, wishing for so long and – one kiss is fine, right?  
  
He seems to be taking your lack of response as rejection, but you grab hold of his face before he can move away, not willing to let the moment pass. You pull, _pull_ , and drag him against you, and he willingly obliges, covering your mouth with his own once more. More forceful, this time, but still dizzyingly, confusingly careful.  
  
Before you even know where and what and how, you're sitting in his lap, arms locked around his neck and lungs begging for air. His hands are _everywhere_ ; pulling and tugging and pushing you closer, grabbing your ass and pressing your hips down to grind against his growing erection, stroking your back with surprisingly gentle strokes. There's something weirdly _not_ -sexual about it all, despite the way his fingers glide over your breasts and the way you moan into his mouth. In the back of your head, the word romantic comes to mind; you're quick to extinguish that flame. There's a mutually understood fragility about the moment, as if you both know everything will be ruined once you come to your senses.  
  
And you do; way, way too early.  
  
“I've told you not to do that!” you almost-yell, hands pushed against his chest. His heart rate feels like holding your palm against a loud speaker (it thrums and beats and vibrates and it's all you can do not to be distracted by the sheer intensity of the beats), and his eyes are hard. His hands, warm and steady on your hips, tighten their grip until it hurts, and you feel like you'll find his fingerprint tattooed on your skin. It's not really fair to blame him for the kiss, but you're in love with the man, so you obviously shouldn't be held accountable for your actions when he decides to put his face so dangerously close.  
  
“You have no problem with my cock down your throat, but a kiss on the mouth is too much for you?” he growls (you swear he's the only one who can sound so angry all the while looking completely blank; the furrow of his eyebrows the only telltale sign that he's upset), and it's not so much what he said, rather that he said it at all, that makes you stumble. Ushijima is known for being blunt, but never in a way that's supposed to be biting; always a slip of the tongue, not a remark meant to injure. This one _does_ hurt. The insinuation hits you like a punch to the face, and you scramble off his lap inelegantly.  
“What's that supposed to mean?” it's the completely wrong thing to say, but you're still caught between hurt and ecstasy, it's hard to be coherent.  
  
“Nothing,” he says as he gets up from the couch. He makes his way to the door, and you don't even have it in you to try and stop him from leaving. All you do is stand there, disheveled and unraveled, as the man you love gathers his things and opens the door. “it means absolutely nothing.”  
  
It takes a cup of coffee, a text from your friend and a long, hard stare at yourself – lips swollen and cheeks still colored – in the mirror to realize that this time, Ushijima's probably not coming back.  
  
And then, _then_ you cry.  
  
~  
  
You've left each other in anger before, but it always worked itself out somehow (in hindsight; didn't it always work itself out because he relented and came back? You can't remember ever being the one to throw in the towel or stopping the silent treatment first. In fact, you can count on two hands the times you've even sought him out first, and that was only in the very beginning, wasn't it?), but this time, Ushijima goes out of his way to give you the cold shoulder. Tendou even points it out, asks you what you did that pissed the stoic man off so much, but you can't come up with a response, inwardly chalking it up to sexual frustration.  
  
Days turns into weeks, and it's sinking in that he's really not going to come crawling back this time. Ushijima wins his volleyball thing, ignores your congratulatory text, and you go out on a date with a coworker just to spite him.  
  
It takes a month of pining and petty self-pity to make up your mind to go to his house.  
  
“Why are you here?” is the first thing out of his mouth, and it takes all of your self-control not to grimace at the tone of his voice. Why _are_ you there? You want to turn around and leave again, maybe even cuss him out for good measure, but you ignore the fact that he's not letting you in instead and inhale slowly, pulling your jacket tighter around you. The December air bites your skin, but you pretend not to be freezing (in more ways than one), and answer his question instead.  
“You've been ignoring me.”  
“I broke the arrangement,” he says casually, ignoring the way your face flushes at the mention of your last encounter. Sometimes you forget that Ushijima's specialty is cold politeness, which is why you're so unprepared for the unfeeling way he says “I only thought it was appropriate”.  
“What – the kiss? I don't care about that,” the lie comes easily, too quickly, a desperate attempt not to let him slip through your fingers. You should – you so absolutely should, and he looks more than willing to give you an out that won't completely shatter your stupid, little heart – but instead you ramble, all pretenses forgotten. “if anything, that was my fault.”  
  
(It wasn't; and you both know how transparent the lie is.)  
  
His gaze narrows, and for a moment you think you've made him angry.  
  
“That's not what I'm talking about.”  
  
(You rack your brain to understand what he _is_ talking about; not appreciating that the usually too forthcoming man chooses this moment to practice being vague.)  
  
“You're gonna have to be a bit more specific.”  
  
(You _say_ that, but you really don't want him to, because the list of rules wasn't _that_ long, and if he's not talking about the kiss there's a 50/50 chance he's slept with or fallen for someone else, and that's a possibility you don't have it in you to handle yet.)  
  
“Why are you crying?” he says after studying your face for a while, and only then do you realize that you are, in fact, crying. You try to dry your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket, muttering apologies as you do, but the tears just keep coming. It's the silent sort of crying, the one that leaves you red-faced and with a runny nose but doesn't make your face scrunch up. It feels like you're trying to swallow all your pain; like it gets stuck in your throat, making it hard to breathe.  
  
“I guess I missed you more than I thought,” you finally choke out with a bitter laugh; too far gone to care for secrecy. If he's dumping you anyways, it doesn't really matter, does it? Ushijima looks around and sighs, ushering you inside. He unzips your jacket and helps you get it off, hangs it on the coat-rack and takes your hands in his own. They're warm against your own frozen digits, and the thought only makes you cry more. You always loved his warm hands.  
  
You try not to shiver pleasantly when he runs his hands up your arms, and when he cups your face; brushes your tears away with his thumbs, you almost sigh contently. Oh – you've missed this.  
  
“I'm going to kiss you now,” he says suddenly, breaking the tension-filled silence. You're flabbergasted; taken aback from the sudden announcement – unsure of how to respond, how to process what's happening.  
  
“What?” you croak at last. “This is hardly the time for-” he swallows whatever you intended to say next, pulling your face up to meet his; you unconsciously stand on your toes to reach him. It's like something straight out of a fairy tale – it's butterflies in your stomach and warm hands against your wet cheeks and soft, soft lips on your own. It's slow and deliberate, and it's not the kind of kiss you share with a fuckfriend; it's sparks and flames and a whole goddamn forest fire.  
  
Ushijima's not much for words – he's too blunt and at times incredibly dense – and you can think of at least five things you'd rather he do with his sharp, stupid mouth. Like this; kissing you senseless, like he wants to steal all your oxygen and inhale your soul. Biting carefully, gently at your bottom lip, tongue almost shyly asking for entrance. You try to breathe through your nose, not willing to be the one to break the kiss.  
  
“I don't want this friends with benefits thing,” he tells you when you finally break apart, both short on breath and high on endorphins.  
“Okay,” you reply, heart thrumming painfully in your chest and echoing in your ears. His eyes are alive in the way you've only ever seen them during sex, and it makes you excited to know you can make him look so undone just by kissing him.  
  
(If you'd known that before, you'd let him kiss you months ago.)  
  
“I want to sleep with you and not have to leave after,” he continues, fingers tracing your lips seemingly absentmindedly. “In a bed,” he adds as an afterthought.  
  
(Another boundary you set; never have sex in a bed. The chance of post-sex cuddling and falling asleep was too high, too much for your infatuated heart to handle –  
  
you've really been an idiot, haven't you?)  
  
Your lack of response gives him pause, and his brows furrow. You must look like a deer in headlights to him – make-up running, nose running and lips swollen. You're too elated to be self-conscious; too preoccupied by the unsteady rhythm in your chest.  
  
“Do you understand what I'm saying?” he asks at last, and you realize he must be waiting for your answer. It didn't occur to you he might not be sure of your answer, but by the look on his face, he's just as unsure of himself as you are.  
  
In spite of the seriousness of the situation, you laugh; it feels like a weight has been lifted off of your shoulder. All these weeks of worrying that Ushijima had gotten tired of you, months of dodging any actual intimacy in fear of being viewed as a hole – somehow you managed to get the man to fall for you even as you tried your best to push him away. You feel lighter than you've done since you started feeling the pull of affection towards the tall man, and when you bring your arms around his neck, you can't quite manage to keep a smile off your face.  
  
“Are you saying you're smitten, Wakatoshi?”  
  
He doesn't say anything, doesn't respond to your teasing with words – instead he leans down to scoop you up, carries you bridal style across the hall until he reaches his bedroom. He throws you unceremoniously on the bed and climbs on top of you.  
  
“What if I am?”  
  
(He doesn't let you respond; he eats your words and drinks up all your uncertainties;  
  
you fall asleep with arms around you, feeling, above all else, content.)   
  
~  
  
His hands are always so warm.  
  
They burn; scolding, painful trails along your abdomen. Calloused, hard skin against your own soft flesh wakes you from comfortable, peaceful sleep. If you'd known that the tall man was such a cuddly sleeper, you'd have taken him to bed a long time ago.  
  
His face is buried in your shoulder, nose burrowing affectionately into your neck and breath tickling your skin. He's fast asleep and his arm is heavy over your tired body; it's the kind of weight that makes you feel loved rather than feeling like a burden.  
  
You grab hold of his wandering hand and brings it up to your lips.  
  
“I love you,” you mutter against his fingers, and you feel his lips quirk at the ends against your skin.  
  
(he forces himself to lie completely still, not wanting to embarass you by letting you know he caught you in the act – he can tell you he loves you too later.  
  
You have time.)

 

 


	2. you never asked me to stay (Kuroo Tetsurou part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "better luck next time" i said, intending to actually write drabbles. instead this happened, and i decided i had to split it up in two chapters. welp. 
> 
> i know people have conflicting views on what's appropriate to write about and what's not, my personal opinion is that when writing, you'll encounter topics that hurt because they are real. i mean no offense and i encourage people to read with caution, as my desire to write about real problems does not trump your need to feel comfortable. 
> 
> (this isn't proof-read because i've been staring at it for MONTHS and i'm soooo tired of staring at it, so please let me know about any mistakes)

Remember those days when you were younger, when people asked you “what would you do if the world ended tomorrow”?  
  
It was one of those hypothetical questions; always answered jokingly with talk of world domination and eating at the fanciest of fancy restaurants. Telling your crush you loved them, traveling, robbing a bank. It was a personality test of sorts, as if your answer would tell the person who you were by a silly, hypothetical scenario that would never happen.  
  
Yeah. Those were the days.  
  
Picture this:  
  
The suburbs. The _rich_ suburbs. You know; the stay-at-home-wife, private school, church on Sunday-suburbs. The one where the gay cousin goes away to a 'camp' and doesn't come home, and unmarried, pregnant women make up less than 1% of the statistics. The one where the teenagers pretend to be obedient, but steal their parents' alcohol and party like there's no tomorrow behind their parents' back.  
  
Your childhood home, mother busy in the kitchen (“I've just been _dying_ for a chance to use the fancy china,” she exclaims upon your visit. And well; a surprise visit from their estranged daughter is, you suppose, as good a chance as any to whip out the _fancy_ tableware), father in his well-worn, comfy chair in front of the TV.  
  
Your father doesn't say much, which is _fine_ , and your mother spends most of the time in front of the stove, which is _fine_ , and you contemplate why you even decided to come back.  
“Oh!” your mother's voice comes from the kitchen, laced with the same, fake pep that used to drive you mad as a teenager. “I hear that boy is back in town, too – what was his name again? Tetsuya?”  
“Tetsurou,” you reply absentmindedly, glancing at the family photos lining the wall of the living room.  
  
(Ah – bingo! That's why.)  
  
Then, picture this:  
  
Your father is watching some kind of sport. It's not that he's particularly interested in sport; it's just that he's less interested in his wife.  
  
The screen flickers and blurs, just as some star player is about to make a star move – a slam dunk or a touch down or whatever – and then the words EMERGENCY BROADCAST are covering the screen in bold, red letters. The news anchor looks ragged, nervous, and somehow you just know that something is terribly, horribly wrong. The anchor starts talking, and he's struggling to keep his voice even, beads of sweat forming on his bald head and hands trembling like an addict going through withdrawal.  
  
Everything happens kind of in slow motion after that. You only manage to catch a few words: asteroids. Collision course. End of the world. Your father is grabbing his trusty pack of cigarettes; you wonder idly if your mother has given up on trying to get him to stop smoking inside, and your mother enters the room, hands full of expensive-looking dinner plates with intricate designs.  
  
The fancy china hits the floor with a resounding crash.  
  
(That's a shame.)  
  
  
**(16 days until the end of the world)  
**   
You meet him at the local 24-hour convenience store, the day after the news announced the literal end of the world.  
  
Your parents leave a large sum of money and a house full of painful memories, and then they take your car and drive off to god knows where. Truth be told, you encourage them to take the trip – the idea of spending your last days on earth with tense dinners and faux pleasantries does not appeal much.  
  
(It's not so bad, deciding to just get in the car and drive somewhere. The immediate trends in the suburbs seems to be crazy (emphasis; _crazy_ ) parties, impulsive traveling or suicide. And you think that watching your parents 'party like there's no tomorrow' might have actually driven _you_ to suicide; the thought makes you shiver while staring blankly at the contents of the fridge.  
  
Yeah – you'll need to shop.)  
  
The store is surprisingly well-stocked, all things considered, and if it weren't for the glaring lack of employees, the inside of the convenience store you used to buy ice-cream at when you were a child would feel like in a vacuum; untouched by the insanity that is impending doom of an entire planet. It's silent; almost eerie, and you're left completely to your own devices.  
  
(Well – not quite; there's this guy in the back who seems to be doing some elaborate test of how many six-packs he can get out of the store in one go, but you pay him no mind.)  
  
You wander around the store, putting random items into your basket every now and again, not really paying any attention to your surroundings. Should have written a list, you think, walking past the dairy aisle for the third time. Someone suddenly calls your name, and despite how many years it has been, you'd recognize that voice anywhere. There's nowhere to hide, and you figure you're too old to duck behind the nearest aisle, so you turn around instead and greet the beer-guy with a smile. Except, it's not just the 'beer-guy' anymore, it's Kuroo Tetsurou, and you're wholly unprepared to see him.  
  
(He's as pleasant as ever, and somehow that makes it worse.)  
  
“Man, I haven't seen you in-” _six years, three months and two days_ , “ages!” he says jovially, as if your hasty escape didn't leave a bad taste in his mouth. As if you just left for college or moved away for work, as if you didn't leave without notice, as if he wasn't a reason for your disappearance.  
  
(Maybe he genuinely doesn't know, you consider. But no – Kuroo's not that stupid.)  
  
“I tried getting in touch,” he continues, and you struggle to keep your expression neutral. You know this, of course, because you blocked his number after the fifth time he tried calling you; much to Kenma's chagrin. The shorter boy never liked being the bearer of your secrets, but if the dark haired male's behavior is any indication, Kenma kept his word.  
  
“Oh,” you reply lamely, because, really, what else is there to say? Eager to change the topic, you take a look behind him; stacks upon stacks of beers of varying brands, you don't even know how he managed to get all of them in his cart.  
“I see you're trying to...” you furrow your brows and glance from the stack to his face. “drown yourself in alcohol?”  
  
He looks confused for a second – taken aback with the sudden conversation change, but then a trademark crooked grin makes it's way to his face. And, fuck, if that isn't just a shitty reminder. He laughs, causing your stomach to flip and somersault in the most paradoxically comfortable yet unbearable ways.  
  
“Uh, no, we're having a party – you should totally come! – and I just figured, better safe than sorry, right?”  
  
You remember Kuroo and Kenma's parties – if you could really say Kenma had any part of it, as he was most likely to be found in front of the television in his room for the duration of the thing – and a smile tugs at your lips. Some of your best memories comes from the buzz of illegally obtained soft drinks and wine stolen from your father's cellar, on Kuroo's worn-down coach. But that train of thought leads to darker places, and your smile grows strained.  
  
“How's your fiancee? Or – I guess it's wife now, huh?”  
  
The words are out before you can think to stop them, and you instantly regret opening your mouth. You know what he's going to say about this, too, because Kenma wouldn't shut up about it for weeks, begging you to come back and set things right. Kuroo's expression falters.  
  
“Oh, that...” he scratches the back of his eternal bedhead uncomfortably. “that didn't pan out.” It's a loaded statement (which is fair – it was a loaded question, too), and he stares at you as if you're supposed to be reading between the lines. It's an absolutely inappropriate place to have the conversation Kuroo apparently wants to have; with your basket full of pizzas and his cart full of beer, in front of the milk and butter, and despite the fact that you returned home to get some closure, you don't want to talk to him. You're still trying to find an empathetic response to his admission when he opens his mouth again. “Look, I –”  
  
“Party, huh?” you don't bother hiding how much you want to avoid the subject. “Will Kenma be there, too?” He looks like he wants to point out your avoidance, tension thick in the dairy aisle, but in the end he thinks better of it and plasters on a smile that seems a bit less genuine than his previous ones.  
  
“Yeah, probably, if I can drag him out of his room.”  
  
You hum sympathetically; that'll be no easy task.  
  
“I'll try to come by,” you take one last look at the impressive stack of alcohol and add with a smile: “try to save me a beer, yeah?”  
  
Kuroo looks embarrassed and gives a light laugh; knowing that you're putting an end to the conversation and that more probing will only make things awkward.  
“Yeah, coolio. Right on,” he fumbles (you think no one manages to look both confident and bashful at the same time quite like Kuroo does), and with a cordial, business-like smile, you say your goodbyes and hurry over to the cashier.  
  
Well, to the cash register. You're not sure what's the appropriate thing to do, so you leave some money there and leave the store, heart and feet matching in their quick, panicked pace.  
  
(It's not until you're in your bed that night, replaying the conversation for the umpteenth time, that you realize you and Kuroo didn't even talk about the elephant in the room; the end of the world. The two of you used to have so many profound conversations, how telling it is; that your friendship has reverted to the point of you tip-toeing around each other so much that the topic of the apocalypse seems too deep.  
  
You hug your pillow and will yourself not to cry.)  
  
So much for closure.  
  
  
**(14 days until the end of the world)**  
  
You do end up going to the party.  
  
It's like walking into the past; you can spot Bokuto, Lev and Akaashi from the door, latter looking more like a babysitter than a participant of the ongoing party, Hinata and Kageyama are competing in a very intense battle of beer pong (Hinata's losing), and Ushijima is standing as a beacon – or a light pole – in the middle of the room, looking severely out of place and uncomfortable. It's a reminder of all the secret parties you used to hold in your younger days – the strange mix of different personalities still seem unnatural and weird to you.  
  
You almost turn and leave the instant you spot Kuroo in a corner, talking animatedly with Oikawa (who still looks like he should be on the cover of a magazine – what the hell does that man do with his hair to make it look so soft?), but an excited voice yells your name, and then an arm is slung around your shoulder, a beer gets thrust into your hands, and Bokuto is steering you towards a group of people.  
  
Being around your old friends is nice and all, but you can't help glancing around every now and then to make sure Kuroo isn't sneaking up on you. You'd spent the whole drive home imagining what you would say; to your mother, to your father and to Kuroo, but now that you're here, you've sort of deflated. Everything's _the same_ , in a way that's part comforting and part inconceivable – because _nothing_ is the same for you anymore. You kind of imagined that it would show, somehow, that you'd been gone for half a decade. Turns out time stands still in the suburbs.  
  
(Should've figured, you think bitterly, taking a large gulp of the alcoholic drink in your hands.)  
  
Well – you look over at Bokuto and Akaashi and can't help but noticing how close they're standing and how Bokuto can't seem to stop randomly touching the other male – _some_ things obviously have changed. That's nice.  
  
The first half of the night is spent with idle chatter and awkward hugs and ' _it's good to see you back, so how about that end of the world thing, huh?_ 's, and you're juuust starting to get comfortable exchanging pleasantries with old classmates when someone puts a firm hand on your shoulder. To say Kuroo looks annoyed would be a bit of an understatement, but he manages some sort of half-smile that seems to physically pain him.  
  
“There you are!” he yells with fake enthusiasm, causing Bokuto and Akaashi to exchange knowing glances before excusing themselves. Bokuto squeezes your hand emphatically, but it only serves to make you even more nervous than you were before.  
  
You wonder how much they know.  
  
Kuroo drags you out through the backdoor, and you're hit with a wall of memories. How often did the two of you sneak out that very door, how often did you share secrets and enjoy a few moments of privacy? There's some sort of nostalgia there, in the tight space between you and the raven haired man you loved so much, and you don't know whether it's the cold or the alcohol that makes your eyes tear up.  
  
It's dark, almost midnight, and you can barely see Kuroo's face, but you know he's staring. He's struggling, looking for the right words to start this shitty conversation with, and you have to physically restrain yourself from trying to leave. When he finally manages to find his words, you cut him off with a cough.  
  
“Nice party,” you tell him, avoiding the way his eyes narrow and the grip around your wrist tightens.  
  
“The world is literally ending, are we really going to tip-toe around this _now_?” He sounds aggravated.  
“Yes, we are,” you reply through gritted teeth. It's childish and rude, but you chugged down a bottle of wine before going over to the Kenma/Kuroo residence, and you're feeling the mixture of wine and beer and some sort of fruity drink splash uncomfortably around in your stomach, and it's true what they say about liquid courage, because you feel like you could beat the man down right then and there.  
  
(Not that you would, of course. Probably.)  
  
“I did something stupid,” he says, and it's obvious that he doesn't intend to stop there, so you cut him off again with an abrupt hand gesture. He takes a step closer, you take two back, and suddenly your back is against the wall. You feel trapped between the cold concrete and Kuroo's piercing gaze, and all the courage you felt just a moment ago vanishes once his hand reaches out to touch yours. You sidestep, make your way back to the door, ignoring the pained expression on Kuroo's face at the rejection.  
  
“We both made mistakes, let's just not dwell on it.”  
  
With that, you tell the tall boy you're going to go find Kenma, and then you almost-run back into the house.  
  
Kenma still hasn't learned how to do his roots, he's still significantly shorter than his best friend and roommate, and he's still wearing an oversized hoodie and sweatpants at a party. Basically, he looks like a slightly taller, less lanky version of himself, and he also looks like he hasn't moved from his computer in days. This isn't a new development in itself, but he used to at least keep his desk immaculate; now it's filled to the brim with cans of varying sodas and soft drinks and empty boxes of take-out.  
  
“I brought you a beer,” you tell him when you enter his room, throwing the can his way. He doesn't look surprised to see you and doesn't waste any time with the pleasantries you heard over and over downstairs. He merely catches the beer and makes a sort of humming noise as way of greeting you, and then he goes back to his game. You take a seat on his messy bed with a sigh of contentment – he always did have the softest bed you've ever slept in.  
  
“Kuroo told me you were back. Didn't think you'd come,” he takes a sip of the beer, not even glancing in your direction as you make yourself comfortable on his bed.  
  
“Of course I came! I wanted to see your cute face again!” you reply, grinning widely and leaning back to rest your head on his pillow. It's one of those really big ones, so poofy that your face becomes almost completely hidden in it. “Looks like you're busy, though?”  
  
Kenma groans, the sound almost drowned by the violent tapping of his fingers on the keyboard and constant clicking on the mouse.  
  
“I'm not going to die in Gold II,” he says seriously, not taking his eyes off the computer screen, and you're not even going to pretend you understand what he's talking about.  
  
The silence between you is comfortable, as it's always been. Not even six years apart and the drama that chased you out of town could ruin the bond between the two of you. You've always loved Kuroo, but there's a special sort of trust that's reserved for the younger male. Kenma doesn't push or impose, he knows when to be silent and when to be frank, and if you're being honest, you owe him a lot for keeping your dirty little secrets all these years. You should tell him this, you think, but the words turn into dust in your mouth.  
  
“It was a mistake to begin with,” you say instead and without any context. You don't need to offer any, he already knows – in depth – what you're talking about, and despite the fact that the clicking and tapping doesn't cease, you know the boy listens.  
  
Kenma doesn't reply, doesn't even need to, because you know he agrees with you. It's one of the few things the introvert has been surprisingly vocal about all throughout your friendship. For a while, the only sounds filling the room are Kenma's fingers pressing against the buttons on his expensive-looking keyboard in rapid succession and the drowned out and muted music from the party downstairs. Kenma's room always feels like being inside a bubble. You imagine it must be somewhat similar to how it would feel to be inside his head; quiet, but warm and comfortable; alone, but not lonely.  
  
“I feel like I'm going to die,” you finally whisper, fingers tightening around the beer bottle in your hand. Catlike eyes study you for a second, maybe even less, before returning their attention to the screen.  
  
“It's the end of the world,” he agrees, and you're not sure if it's meant as a joke, sympathy, or if it's just an observation.  
  
You put the now empty beer bottle on the floor with a dramatic huff, and spend the rest of the party silently listening to Kenma playing his game, until you drift out of consciousness among big, fluffy pillows and the first comforting presence you've felt since you returned to your home town.  
  
(Cold hands against your cheeks wake you the next day, and you open your eyes to see Kenma standing by his bed, donned in a new sweater and light traces of purple underneath his eyes. It takes a second to realize you fell asleep in his bed the night before, but Kenma won't hear your apologies.  
'Breakfast's ready', he says, and you follow him silently down the stairs. The house looks like it always did after a party; empty bottles and red solo cups scattered about, and a tired-looking Bokuto greets you when you enter the kitchen. Kuroo enters right behind you, and the four of you eat a large, lavish breakfast together; it almost feels like you're 18 again, like nothing has driven a lodge between you and the boys, and it's nice.  
  
You excuse yourself and leave when Kuroo's heavy gazes become too much to bear, and then you spend two hours in the shower.)  
  
  
**(11 days until the end of the world)**  
  
You're not sure just how many days you spend cooped up in your house, aimlessly wandering the rooms and watching reruns of F.R.I.E.N.D.S. before there's a knock on your door.  
  
In retrospect, you should've known that there's only one person who'd feel the need to knock before entering, even if you've been out of town for half a decade. In retrospect you probably should've been a bit more wary before taking your half-eaten bagel and walking over to the door. If you had been thinking clearly, you'd looked through the peephole before opening.  
  
But you're not thinking clearly, so instead you're greeted with this:  
  
Kuroo looks as haggard as you feel.  
  
“Is it true you were pregnant when you left?” are the first words out of his mouth, and the sudden question makes you choke on your bagel. The laugh-track on the TV still on in the living room goes off, giving the moment a bizarre vibe, and you have to force yourself to look at the man standing on your porch. His gaze is unwavering, if a bit accusatory, and in your mind, a dozen of unwanted images rush through your head –  
  
a positive pregnancy test (getting one where 'positive' is marked by a smiley with a shit-eating grin was probably not the best idea, considering the situation), your mother's disappointed face, getting behind the wheel in the middle of the night – keys stolen and only the bare necessities in the back seat, checkups and avoiding the concerned questions from nurses.  
  
A doctor shaking his head sadly.  
  
You grimace. “I guess.”  
  
Kuroo curses, and your gaze drifts back to the TV, where Chandler tells Monica – who's got a turkey wearing glasses and a fez over her head – that he loves her.  
  
“Why didn't you tell me? I would've-” you send a sharp glare his way, and he stops in his tracks. He looks a bit unraveled, like the news affects him more than he's willing to let on – and you suppose that's possible, Kuroo always knew how to rein in his emotions when needed. After a moment of silence he seems to recover, and ends his sentence with: “been there for you.”  
  
And it's kind of laughable, really (cue: laugh-track; appropriately, this time), because you've wanted to hear those exact words – maybe a bit less strained and a bit more affectionate – for years, but now that they're finally said, out in the open, you feel like you're going to throw up. The conversation is ripping up old wounds; the guilt and shame and fear coming over you in waves that makes it hard to breathe.  
  
“You had your own shit to deal with,” you murmur at last, motioning with your arm for Kuroo to enter – it doesn't seem like a conversation to have in the doorway, after all – but what you really mean is ' _you'd just gotten engaged and I couldn't bear looking at your face anymore. You never asked me to stay.'_  
  
“What – _the engagement_?” He says it like it's something he'd rather forget about; you know practically nothing about what went down there, all Kenma told you was that Kuroo suddenly changed his mind and that she was _pissed_. And you know, of course, that there's more to it than that, but at the time you preferred not to think about Kuroo's marital status – whether it was 'single' or 'engaged', and as such, you never asked.  
  
(Which is regrettable _now_ , but six years ago you didn't even think you'd come back.)  
  
“You know that-” Kuroo's mouth opens and closes a few times, making him look like a fish, and he seems at a loss for words. “the engagement didn't-” there's wild laughter coming from the TV, and Kuroo promptly grabs the remote and turns the television off, looking peeved. He turns his head back to stare meaningfully at you, and flounders a bit more before finally settling on “it didn't _change_ anything. You _know_ that, right?”  
  
This is the part of Kuroo that's so unwittingly cruel; that strings you along and pulls on your heartstrings in a way no one else could ever hope to do.  
  
(The worst part? He's 100% earnest when he says it.)  
  
You reply with a noncommittal hum, and there's a tense silence for a while after that. You're trying to keep your heart steady and your tears at bay; Kuroo seems to be having an internal discussion with himself that you don't want to intrude on, whatever it is about.  
  
The question is inevitable, but it still breaks your heart when he clumsily dances around the subject;  
“But, uh, I don't see a kid around, did you...” he trails off, too uncomfortable to finish the question, to say the word _abortion_. You suspect it's a rather taboo subject – both of your families leaning heavily on the conservative side and you spare him by shaking your head.  
  
“No,” you clear your throat, feel the itch of oncoming tears from behind your eyes, and all the rehearsed lines you had prepared for this conversation disappears from your brain the moment you look at Kuroo's distraught face. He looks like he wants to yell, or cry, or both, and it's so weird to see those emotions so clearly on his face that you start to cry yourself.  
  
In truth, you considered abortion. Every second of every day of the first three weeks, you considered it. Your mother, despite her initial views on the topic, begged and cried and bombarded your phone with messages that you _had to get rid of it_ , and you were scared, alone and ashamed. You even visited an abortion clinic, almost. But in the end, you just couldn't. You told your mother this, and received no further contact from neither her nor your father.  
  
In the end, you suppose, it didn't matter.  
  
“It didn't have a heartbeat,” is all you manage to say, because it hurts, it _hurts_ to say out loud, and you don't think you've ever spoken to anyone about it, save the short messages between you and Kenma.  
  
Kuroo reach out to pull you against him, and you let him, trying not to think about the fact that it's the first time in six years, three months and who even knows how many days anymore, and instead focus on how _good_ it feels, his hands rubbing soothing circles on your back and breathing against your hair. It makes you realize how _tired_ you are, of running and of hiding and pretending. How scared you are of what's gonna happen; how sad it makes you, how much you wanted to do, to accomplish, before dying.  
  
How much you've missed your home and your friends. Maybe even your parents and the eerie feeling of time standing still surrounding your childhood home. And Kuroo, maybe most of all. His arms feels like home; warm, comfortable, safe –  
  
(Safe enough that you fall asleep on the couch, feeling for the first time in ages _content_.)  
  
  
**(9 days until the end of the world)  
**   
It's a bit easier after that. Kuroo seems to be walking on egg shells around you, not wholly certain when topush and when to pull, but it's relatively comfortable. He hasn't left the house once since he arrived two days earlier ( _I swear I can hear Kenma clicking away on his computer through every wall in that house_ , he says), and you're still not sure what conversational topics are safe and what are off-limits, but you're learning how to be around each other again, and that's a start.  
  
Which is a strange thing to say when the world is ending in a week, but there you go.  
  
He wants to talk about it sometimes, you can tell. About his fiance, your miscarriage, about the reason you left. And you should – isn't that why you came back, after all? – but it twists and turns in your stomach and you keep scrambling for excuses to change the subject.  
  
“Look, Kuroo, it's-” you grab the remote and turn on the television. The news channel has this big countdown on the bottom of the screen, letting people know exactly how much time there's left. “9 days, 11 hours, 20 minutes and 23 seconds until an asteroid collides with the earth and kills us all in a matter of seconds, I don't want to spend the rest of my days moping around. Please?”  
  
Kuroo looks like he wants to argue, but chooses instead to sigh and shake his head dramatically.  
  
(Which means you win. At least for the time being.)  
  
“What _do_ you want to do, then?”  
  
You turn around to fully look at him; he's grinning. And it's infectious.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because my self-confidence in my writing is approaching zero, i feel the need to justify the vagueness of this chapter by saying that ''all will be revealed'' in the next one, lmao.


End file.
